


The Empire and I

by tredecaphobia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tredecaphobia/pseuds/tredecaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greece, despite or perhaps in spite of, his status as a conquered nation, was rarely allowed to cook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empire and I

Perhaps due to his status as a conquered nation, and thus as part of the harem, Greece was rarely allowed to cook. Even in the old days, when they hadn’t had much, Ottoman was always careful to have a cook about them. So, Greece’s inclinations were often suppressed, more often than not due to ideological matters; no, he couldn’t make moussaka, and would he quit whining already. Why the fuck would he want to make gyros, anyway?

When Greece was allowed to make food, he was always careful to make it Greek, and he had had the sneaking suspicion that that was perhaps why the Empire let him cook in the first place.

He was not trying to be this man’s friend, and perhaps the Empire knew this; for the first year or so Herakles cooked, there would be a taster nearby, to check if the food was poisoned before the man consumed it.

It was a patient ritual every night, and Herakles felt his face burning with humiliation every time as the Ottoman Empire would watch, face still masked, so the play of emotion did not show through, and dismiss the taster entirely when finished. It was never poisoned, and the Empire never commented on that, but Greece could tell he was surprised.

Then the mask would come off (unceremoniously hooking fingers into eye sockets and pulling at the lower, black mask) as soon as the door was closed, and the man beneath was revealed, his eyes more often than not shadowed with months of sleep-deprivation and wartime campaigns, his stubble pronounced, and his face haggard. It complimented well the natural beauty the man had, and the grace he inherently carried himself with; his olive eyes drooping as he forked layers of cooked meat, vegetables, and cheese into his mouth, the corded muscles in his jaw working as he chewed with a military efficiency (which he still did to this day, and Herakles could only stare at this with a pressure he could not identify lodged in his throat, and wished Turkey still wore full-face masks), before speaking in some fashion or other. It was usually, at first,

“Well, are you gonna come’n siddown, or didjou feed me the wrong plate?” And Greece would come and sit down, and comfort himself at least slightly with the taste of real Greek food. Before, that was, Turkey would speak for the second time.

“The fuck is this?” He would finally pause in eating, shifting the food around until Herakles realized he meant the dish and not some foreign ingredient he found in the food, and would then be forced to explain.

“It’s moussaka.” He was often soft-spoken, but it was extraordinary how well the Empire heard and attentively he paid attention.

“No it ain’t!” He sputtered, misktaking the Greek word for a similar-sounding Arabic one. “It’s all three-layered-y shit, and this ain’t musakka.”

“I said, moussaka.” Greece would repeat, adding the slight emphasis, and the Empire would hum to himself, non-commit, and continue eating.

More often than not, he wouldn’t say anything one way or the other about the dish, and show neither outward pleasure, or express inward delight. Greece had never taken it to heart in the first place, though he was always slightly miffed that the man did not appreciate good Greek food. Though, he would always find a small, mild jibe to add in after he was finished (because nothing really was wrong with the food, and Herakles knew this, because he had done the cooking after all).

“It would have been better with more cinnamon.” And Greece would have sneered, and sometimes responded with,

“Any more cinnamon and it wouldn’t be Greek food.” To which the man would have responded with an affirmative, and infuriating the boy. Sometimes, however, he would critique the actual cooking itself.

“The meat was undercooked.” Or, “Did you even use any spices in this thing?” To which Herakles would sneer, again, and say if he disliked it that ardently, he could make it himself. To which the Empire always declined, and Herakles would pay for his insolence before the night was out (usually gasping, on his back, with his knees pressed up to his chest, and Turkey laying upon him, animalistic growls coming from him every time his hips moved).

Herakles never quite discovered in those early days that the man truly enjoyed his cooking, or what he even enjoyed at all; Herakles would make the food more for himself than anything else (or, at least, would tell himself so, and would deny that little crushing sensation in his chest when the man cleared his teeth and grimaced, speaking on the tenderness of the meat, which the boy had gone through great lengths to make pleasurable), and would eat it happily.

It was always an added bonus when the man voiced an actual opinion. “Wasn’t bad.” He would say, lounging and sated and uninterested in physical contact (the nights he was too tired to do anything but eat were always the nights Herakles liked best). Though sometimes, best of all, were the nights the Empire was totally silent. He would finish his food without a word and, on his way out, would bestow a kiss to the boy’s forehead before quitting the room to his bedchamber. Greece would silently decide, picking up dishes and quietly stacking them, that the Empire actually liked Greek food.

**Author's Note:**

> The taster bit was mainly an Egyptian thing, but a smart conqueror always makes sure his vassals aren’t trying to kill him.
> 
> Also, I know gyros was actually a Turkish dish way back in the when. But, honestly, there’s very little actual Greek food today that hasn’t been touched by the Turks. 
> 
> Also, I can totally see Turkey being a culinary snob- most of the Balkan’s food has been influenced by the Empire’s, after all.


End file.
